


My Name Is...

by UsernameWasTaken_Leo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Don't Read This, First Person Narration, Gen, Just an Idea I had to put down, Short, You Have Been Warned, it will end badly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-19 11:39:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11312628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UsernameWasTaken_Leo/pseuds/UsernameWasTaken_Leo
Summary: Hello, my name is '...' and I believe that my mother is going to kill me.It will happen any day now I am sure, so I have set my affairs in order. I am trapped in the house with her as I record these thoughts, and I do not believe I will ever be leaving it again.





	1. FWD: If you're reading this...

**Author's Note:**

> I know I was supposed to be writing the next chapter of Runeblade, and that is still coming. However some bad shit happened not too long ago (At time of writing) and I need to just forget what is happening for a while. That being said, I got an idea for a short story and decided that now was as good a time as any. Pay the oddly specific date no mind as it was pretty much just when I actually started jotting the first draft down on paper so I used the date and time as the turning point for this yet unnamed narrator. (That totally isn't just the author)
> 
> Yes this is based on my own life, only like... 90% though. For the sake of telling an actual story there are gonna be a few embellishments here and there and I will let you know when that is in the end notes.
> 
> If there are embellishments, I haven't actually finished writing it yet and I haven't told a lie thus far. The only real embellishment is the whole 'Mother is going to kill me' thing. I may not like my mother much... Or at all... But she isn't a monster.  
> I think.
> 
> Yes I am turning the stupid bullshit that has happened in my life into writing practice, I can't think what else to do with myself right now.  
> It's a short story so updates should come relatively quickly anyways.

In case I die in the near future. . .

     I think it best if my family knows the sort of activities my mother gets up to when nobody else is around.

It has been a very long time now since we've exchanged  **any** words one-on-one without witnesses that wasn't me cowering and her screaming and accusing me of being the cause of all the problems, trials, and tribulations in her life.  **Or** her screaming, finding myself getting angry that she has lost her mind once again over something that is likely beyond my control, and her using the perpetual guilt complex she instilled in me when I was five years old by crying and telling me what a horrible child I am.

I want to make one thing clear going forward:

**THIS IS NOT A SUICIDE NOTE!!**

Her threats of physical violence against me are becoming more and more frequent as of late, and it is starting to genuinely terrify me. I don't know if she would actually kill me, but if she ever decided to make good on her threats, she won't have to.

The difference in her when it is only the two of us, and when there are other people around is like night and day. She doesn't hide herself when my youngest brother is around because he is too scared to speak up. I don't blame him. . .

     At the time of starting this record, it is currently June 26, 2017, approximately 2:38 PM to be exact and I have just returned home from walking our two dogs roughly 20 minutes prior.

     During said walk, there was an incident. Which upon reflection was such a small thing, but when I consider the underlying thought process that led to the event, it brought about a personal epiphany that made me realize that the words a very dear friend spoke to me are true.

Namely, that my mother, is an abusive piece of shit and that I need to stop rationalizing her reprehensible actions.

So what brought about this discovery for me? How did a single walk cause me to realize something that a sane man would have realized years ago, in theory anyways.

     Well reader, whether it be family, friends, police, or even just a random passerby who happened to find this. Whoever you are, alone with my words on a page, let me tell you a tale.

I don't know when I'll find the will to even try to recount this again. . .


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circumstances of a Bastard Child's birth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything you are about to read is true.

I was a bastard child. The product of a broken condom and something my mother never wanted. My father is completely against the concept of abortion however, so I was allowed to live, I am grateful for that. But I only know this because my mother has let me know that I am in fact, a bastard on more than one occasion. My father has been told that she does this often, but I don't think he believes me or my younger sister.

     I am the reason my family lacks any safe kind of financial security, the reason that there is never enough food in the house, the reason that my mother has bad days at work, the reason my sister hates her, the reason my brother left when I was ten. Basically I am the sole cause of all the problems in my family's life.

And for a long time, I truly believed that. You've probably heard the saying "repeat a lie over and over again, and idiots will believe it" Well... Apparently that applies to geniuses too.

Because despite accepting the burden of a guilty conscience, I am a genius. At least, according to my father, who let me know that as a child, and has never let me forget it.

I truly wish he had. . .

                                         It would have made my life much easier.

I believe that there is no greater detriment to a truly intelligent child, than to tell them that. It makes figuring out their life and how best to utilize their abilities so much harder.

I don't know why I am writing any of this right now, I doubt anyone will ever read it. But I had to do something to escape.

Something... Anything...

But, Returning to my story.

     My mother was still married to my Older Brother's Father when I was conceived. She left that man and moved in with my father shortly before I was born. But the divorce papers still were not signed yet when I finally happened.

     Now. I have been told otherwise in regards to this story, but I am not an idiot as previously established. At least if my father is to be believed. Sure my mother may not have been living with my Half-Brother's dad when I was born, but my father did let it slip a long time ago that the divorce had not yet been fully filed when I was actually born.

Given that it takes nine months for a child to be born, and I was neither early nor late in arrival. An idiot could tell you that I was the product of an affair. My parents can sugar-coat it all they want.

I've even said this to them, trying to piece the timeline of events together a few times. Now this was years ago by this point, mind you, I was a ten year old kid trying to figure out why my older brother had two fathers. But they both vehemently deny that it was an affair that made me. They refuse to tell me anything else surrounding my conception **to this day** , and they tell everyone else around them that my mother was already divorced when the two of them started dating.

In this case, their silence says more than any words ever could. . .

     So that is how I came to be in this world that, I believe is a small part of the reason that my mother despises me so. Why she blames me for damn near everything. It is not the whole story, but it is already, in some small way. Not a promising start for me from the very beginning.

I could be wrong in considering it a factor in how things got to this point. But perhaps it doesn't really matter.

* * *

 

_"M..."_

    The Earliest years of my life that I can recall are probably also the happiest, perhaps because I cannot recall the context, or maybe the abuse had not started yet. I know that the latter is a lie, but it is nice to believe that my mother wasn't always the person she is toady, and that maybe I did do something to cause the past sixteen years of rage from her.

But I'm just rationalizing again.

At the start of this story, this note, whatever the reader pleases to call it, I mentioned that my mother had instilled a perpetually guilty conscience in me when I was five years old. When I think back, that is where the abuse actually began, and why I said 16 years instead of 21.

     This is the story of how that started. . .


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case study in how one instills a perpetual guilt complex in a five year old child, leaving them in a constant state of "This is my fault" even in cases that would require clairvoyance to be prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I was going to finish this story. Because my father found the physical copy of this story and it created a hell of a lot of melodrama around the house. But I have hit the point of "fuck it, whatever happens, happens."  
> Once again, everything written here is, to the best of my knowledge, true.

As previously established, it started when I was five years old.

My mother had been working night shifts at the _"_ _Holiday Inn"_ since I was three at this point. It was fine at first, because she merely worked the front desk, but when I turned five, she became the manager of that place. This was where everything began to go wrong.

She would always come home from work stressed. Given she works at a hotel, I cannot say I begrudge her for that, I work at a hotel at time of writing, and I hate everything about it. But still, its a paycheck. Here is the issue, she would come home stressed, and then proceed to take everything out on the three of us (My older brother, my sister, and myself.) Because as she was getting home my father was leaving, and her only 'friends' are bad ones that periodically ignore her for months on end every time they get a new boyfriend or something stupid so she had nobody to complain at save for a few small children who had no way of understanding what her work environment was like.

With the benefit of hindsight, I get it. I do not hold a grudge for that time any longer. At the time however, try explaining to a bunch of children, the oldest of which is nine, why mom comes home angry and screams at everyone every single night. Try telling them why every time some inane chore isn't done, or they are playing games, or are even just in her field of vision depending on the day, why their mother throws an absolute fit and regales them with the tale of how much their parents sacrifice for them, and how they're all ungrateful little brats.

This was our life, every single day, after 8:00 PM, like clockwork, for three years. Our only reprieve would be one of the few times her friends decided that she existed, and took her out drinking before she came home from work.

When that happened, she would come home in a good mood and we wouldn't mind being around her, she'd be drunk, but she wouldn't be yelling. That was all we wanted.

What instilled the guilt complex in me and not either of my siblings though? Why was I special. Well I ended up singling myself out one particular night that I doubt either one of us has ever quite forgotten.

One night she was bad, I mean worse than usual for us. Because she was drunk, and STILL angry. It has been a long time since I could remember what she was mad about exactly, given that it happened when I was five I probably honestly misunderstood why she was truly mad to begin with anyways, but we learned something very important that night.

**Angry Mom = Bad for us**

**Drunk Mom = Funny**

**Angry & Drunk Mom = An unending fucking nightmare**

As I stated previously, this was years and years ago so I no longer remember what she was even angry about, but I DO remember what I said, and am still at least partially suffering the fallout from I am certain as mother dearest was always one to hold grudges for ridiculous lengths of time and nobody was exempt from them.

So what did I say? I'll tell you, she threw a fit of godlike proportions over something-or-other and I told her- and I quote- "If you hate being around us so much, and we always do things wrong, JUST GO TO WORK AND STAY THERE!"

That was it, and I know that probably sounds horrible depending on your worldview, or it could sound completely benign and like I am likely overplaying something that seems otherwise harmless, but this was the first time I was made to feel guilty for my actions- AND not forgiven for them. I had felt guilt before I am not a sociopath. But usually all was forgiven in a matter of days at the most.

Not this time, no this time I had fucked up, and with the benefit of hindsight I have no illusions about being in the right, nor do I defend my words. But again, five years old, didn't understand anything. Now I had been physically punished before, swatted, smacked with a ruler, paddled, you name a punishment for a child, I've probably been subjected to it. Up to that point though, I had at least seen it coming, and been told it was happening.

This time however, her response was instantaneous. She struck me across the face, and started crying, telling me how horrible of a child I am, by the time my father came home from work and she had informed him of what went down, I believed I had done the worst thing ever.

See I had never made mom cry before that point, I didn't know how to handle it. I wanted to upset her the same way she had been upsetting us for the better part of a year. But I believed that I went too far, as we were all upset by her actions, but none of us had ever cried about it. So I was in my room trying to figure out why my words had such an effect on her to no avail. When my father sat me down and talked through it with me, I remember not what he said, only that he too was angry and believed I had crossed the line. So the conclusion I came to was thus: Whatever she is mad about, it must be my fault.

No big deal right?

I wish that were fucking true

See, my five year old mind took it to the other extreme, but because it made me compliant, it was never corrected and it stuck, and now I go around looking for reasons why everything bad that happens to the people around me is my fault. Especially given that I was never forgiven for that day, to my knowledge.

The extreme being that: Whatever she is mad about, it must be my fault.  **Period.**

So I became the good child, I did everything that was asked of me, and whenever she was upset, I would do everything in my power to make it right, not to make her feel better, but because  _Whatever it is, I'm certain that it's my fault._

Perhaps I over-exaggerate and sometimes I did do things for the proper reasons, perhaps the reason behind the actions don't matter, and what matters more is that I became obedient, became what was expected of me, and never stuck up for myself for fear of being made to feel like a piece of shit for being more than just a robot programmed to obey the Prime Directive. I don't know which one is the bigger factor, because I never would have become as perfect as I possibly could have so early if I didn't fear being the cause of all evil in our household. But I still never stood up for myself, how could I? I was just a rotten child that didn't deserve the things he had.

So as I stated, she began singling me out, if something needed to be done and any of my siblings felt like putting up a fight, we'll just put me on it, after all, I won't argue, I won't fight. I'll just do it and it will be way easier. If I did it wrong they could just yell at me and I'd bow my head and do it until told to stop. If I ever even thought of resisting doing something because it either 'wasn't my turn' or 'wasn't fair' or even if it was just something I was 'scared to do' they could just level the cries of "You ungrateful, horrible child" at me, and I would shut up instantly. Actually my arachnophobia was caused because of this funnily enough, once upon a time, I would go outside and play with spiders as I thought they were cool. Then I was cleaning out a dark attic and ran into a web full of wood spiders (That was what we called em I don't know what they are actually called if that ain't their name) and let me tell you, these little bastards did not appreciate some child that couldn't see trip into their home. I don't remember how many there were, my terrorized brain wanted to say at least 8, but it was probably actually only 2 or 3. I still have the puncture scar on one of my legs from the biggest of the little shits as proof. Kinda looks like 2 freckles just spaced out by a few centimeters.

Anyways, after that I wanted nothing to do with the things and have slowly been trying to get over that little fear. I've only had marginal success, that was when I was seven.

My mother thought it was funny as hell once the bleeding was under control, and for a while would even throw a spider miniature at me from time to time. A trend that I regret being allowed to carry on to my little brother, who didn't have my traumatic experience, he just never liked em, in his own words he hates all 'creepy crawlies' he doesn't say that phrase anymore, but he did for the longest time. Its basically bugs in general he hates.

* * *

 

_"My..."_

 

That was the earliest accounts of her actions I can remember, and you'd be forgiven for thinking I deserved it, that it was all justified. For a long time god only knows that I thought the exact same thing.

Things cooled down for a while when I was eight, in fact if my memory serves, a lot of interesting things happened between the ages of eight to ten. things cooled off a little between us and I had a number of fun and interesting experiences. So to bring some levity back into this otherwise grim memoir, I'll give you a taste of better times.

Better times... Coupled with my theory on why it all fell apart.

Fuck the entire concept of "Genius" It got me through some rough times true, but it caused more problems than it solved.

**Author's Note:**

> Continue? Y/N


End file.
